Slip of a Fish

by Amy Arnold

  Pelteth, like creepeth. That’s what I was thinking.

  But what’s the point in taking feathers from a bird when I don’t know which bird I’m taking it from? Rain pelteth. Perhaps it was Keats. He was Papa’s boy. Once or twice I was hers, although what did she mean, her boy, but you can’t pluck lines from poems. You shouldn’t. It isn’t right.

  Charlie and Nelson sat inside the back door, the rain was coming down. A wind was coming in and Charlie put her knees to her chest and her arm around Nelson.

  ‘Dad doesn’t care about flying insects when it rains,’ she said to him.

  There was a chill in the air. Abbott felt it too.

  ‘Hot chocolate, anyone?’ he said. ‘Hot chocolate?’

  That’s what he said, and after he’d said it a sound came out from the throat of the earth itself. I swear, that’s where it came from. It couldn’t have come from anywhere else, a sound like that.

  Nelson slunk off from under Charlie’s arm. His eyes turned. They looked the way they looked that day at the White Hart. They looked the way they looked when he was pulling on the lead. Pulling and pulling towards Charlie.

  ‘Hot chocolate?’ Abbott said, and I swear the earth turned. The huge earth turned. Charlie stepped out onto the patio. She beckoned to Nelson. She said, ‘Come on, come on out,’ but Nelson didn’t come. The rain was falling, and she was under it, she was out there on the patio, under its pelting.

  Charlie got wet. Of course she got wet. She stood on the patio and the rain was coming down. She stood there without moving. She stood on the patio without moving and she looked like she was thinking about the rain. But it was me who was thinking about the rain, about the way it was pelting down. It wasn’t Charlie.

  Rain pelteth. That’s what I was thinking and I could hear it hitting the window, the patio. Charlie was outside. She was standing on the patio and she wasn’t moving. Rain was running down her arms, her face. Rain was coming off her nose. She stood there and the earth turned again and again and there was lightning too.

  ‘Charlie,’ Abbott said. ‘Come in now, it’s wet.’

  And the sky was dark and the rain was coming down and Charlie was standing on the patio getting wet and I was wondering whether she could stay there indefinitely, but nobody stays anywhere indefinitely, not even Signe, even though she was lying down at the beginning and the end of the book with the flame on the cover. Even though she’s lying there now, lying upstairs, in the present tense.

  I knew Charlie had to come in. She couldn’t stay. The rain was soaking into her T-shirt, her hair. She stood on the patio and let the rain run into her.

  When she was done she came in. She stood on the mat by the back door. Rain was running off her.

  ‘Don’t take another step,’ Abbott said. ‘Take your wet things off right there, and Ash’ll get you a towel.’ She needed a towel. The rain was coming off her, it was running onto the mat.

  ‘No,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Charlie,’ Abbott said. ‘Take your wet things off now.’

  Charlie stood on the mat. The wind was coming into the kitchen. I was sitting on the stool and I could see her body shaking.

  ‘Ash,’ he said.

  I got off the stool and went upstairs for a towel. Rain pelteth, that’s what I was thinking. I was thinking about whether anything would come up if I put it into Google. I could type rain pelteth, or Keats rain pelteth, if I was feeling brave, and maybe something would come up.

  I brought the towel downstairs to the kitchen. I held it out for Charlie, and she took it. Outside the rain was coming down. It was hammering, hammering against our kitchen window. I sat on my stool. Charlie was on the mat, holding the towel.

  ‘Go and have a rest,’ Abbott said.

  I went upstairs. I didn’t feel much like reading. I lay in bed and wondered whether I could get the laptop from Abbott’s study and put rain pelteth into Google. I thought about it and I watched the sky rolling and listened to the sounds of the earth. They made me feel small, the sky and the sounds. I liked feeling small. I tried to think of other ways to feel small like that. I was lying there thinking about how small I really was and I was listening to the rain pelting on the skylight, that’s what I was doing, and I wanted to put rain pelteth into Google, I was reminding myself to do it, I was reminding myself over and over but I must’ve fallen asleep. I didn’t catch myself falling, the way you can sometimes catch yourself falling, I went from awake to asleep without noticing.

  It was dark when I woke. I’m getting used to the dark. You can get used to unfamiliar things.

  When Papa’s hair turned grey he said exactly that:

  ‘The trick is to get used to change.’ That’s what he said. But change isn’t an unfamiliar thing, it’s whatever’s changed that’s unfamiliar. You never know what’s next, I mean. I must’ve said something like that to Papa, because he scooped me up. Yes, that’s what he did. He scooped me up onto his knee and called me My Ash, and for a moment everything was the way it had always been, but when I looked up I could see how his hair was changing, how it was turning from black to grey and Papa was smiling at me and he knew the trick, I could see it in his eyes, I could see he was used to each grey hair, but I wasn’t. I was looking at his hair and I could tell I didn’t know the trick yet.

  It was dark when I woke this morning. I watched the sky until the light came. The clouds were rolling. I tried making myself smaller again. I was getting so good at it I almost disappeared. I kept half an eye on Abbott’s watch, it was on the stand on his bedside table and I could see the hands going round. They were going round slowly, but they were going round.

  ‘I’m still here,’ I said out loud. ‘In the world,’ I said.

  Abbott didn’t stir.

  When he woke at seven thirty I tried being small again. Be small, be smaller, I said to myself as he was fiddling with his glasses, but I couldn’t. And now they’re downstairs and I’m supposed to be resting but I’m in Abbott’s study. I’d been thinking about putting rain pelteth into Google. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Rain, rain. Rain pelteth. Round it went.

  I waited until Abbott put the TV on and I went into his study. I’d decided to type Keats rain pelteth, instead of rain pelteth. I’d been thinking hard and I was almost sure the line was Keats. I went into his office and looked out of the window. You only have to do something eighteen times for it to become habit, so that’s what I did. I looked out of the window. I looked out of the window and that’s when I noticed it was gone. The sofa. The sofa from number five.

  It’s gone. They must’ve taken it inside last night, when they saw the rain clouds building. U, Terry and Jay.

  Jay might’ve said, no regrets, as they carried it in and made the house smaller. Or feel smaller. And making the house feel smaller isn’t the same as making yourself feel smaller. No. It already looks quite small, number five, but I’ve never been in. I’ve only ever walked past twice. I try to walk on our side of the street, which means I have to walk past Joan’s. A lot. I’ve been in there once. Inside Joan’s. She invited me in.

  ‘No point us chatting on the doorstep. Come on through,’ she said.

  I went into her house. Joan’s house. Number four. It was full of things. Things on shelves, things on the walls, things on little tables and a big table, things on the sofa, the armchairs. There were things on things, things piled up, and what were all her things, where had they come from? How had she got them there, how would she ever get them out?

  She said, ‘Come through.’

  It was the right thing to say, because that’s what I was doing, coming through. I was thinking come through, come through. I didn’t want to think of all the things I was coming through, so I came through. Coming through, that’s what I was thinking. That’s all I was thinking.

  I came through to her kitchen. There were things with faces in the kitchen. There were bears and dogs and kittens and other faces, and there they all were and Joan said she’d fix me a cup of tea and the fa
ces were looking out, looking out from the things they were in. I stood with my back to a porcelain dog. It was waving its paw, the porcelain dog, and what was wrong with waving like that, a white porcelain dog with a bow in its hair, with its paw up, waving? I stood with my back to it, I tried to forget it. It would’ve been easier if it hadn’t been waving, but it was. Joan stretched her arm around my side. She took me by surprise. She groaned a bit, and pulled the dog out from behind me. She held it up in the air. She held it up and it reminded me of the time Abbott won a trophy for playing ping-pong. Table tennis, not ping-pong.

  ‘Isabella,’ she said. That was the porcelain dog’s name. She held it in front of my eyes, I scrunched them shut, but I could see behind them anyway. I could see a silhouette of the porcelain dog, the dog with the paw that was waving.

  ‘Sit down here and have your cuppa,’ she said.

  She put the dog down. She pointed to a mug on the counter.

  ‘Grab that.’

  A sheep in a Christmas hat. The mug she pointed to. The sheep was looking out, looking out from the mug. Its eyes were glazed over, there was a sheen on them, a shiny film that might have meant something awful if the sheep had been real, but it wasn’t real.

  ‘Go on, grab it,’ she said.

  And the porcelain dog was there, right where I could see it and the sheep, the sheep on the mug too. I lifted it. I lifted the mug and the sheep sang. There was still a film over its eyes but it sang. It was singing from inside the mug.

  All I want for Christmas is ewe. That’s what it sang.

  I put the mug down.

  ‘What do you think of that then? He sings. He sings when you lift him.’

  I sat at her table. There were faces all around her kitchen.

  ‘They’re all smiling,’ I said, but I must’ve said it quietly, because Joan didn’t hear me.

  They were smiling, all the faces were smiling and looking out and there was the sheep inside the mug, the sheep with the film over its eyes, and it wasn’t Christmas, it was almost April and the daisies on her lawn were up. They were turning their faces towards the sun.

  ‘I prefer standing on the doorstep,’ I said.

  I thought I’d said it more clearly, but she didn’t seem to hear.

  I got up and walked outside. I waited for her on the doorstep, because I didn’t mind her talking to me on the doorstep, or anywhere where there was sky above us. I liked it, I liked listening to her voice. But I couldn’t breathe inside, not with the faces. The things and the faces. Because what were they looking at? What could they see inside her house?

  It was better on the doorstep. So I waited there. I waited for her, but she didn’t come. That was the only time I went in, and I’ve never been inside number five. Although sometimes it feels like I’m part of their family, U and Terry and Jay. Them, and me. You only have to do something eighteen times for it to become habit.

  And now their sofa has gone and I suppose they have too, with or without their regrets, and the rain’s coming down and we’ve got a stream, we’ve got our own little beck, running down our hill.

  I’ll open the window. Abbott doesn’t care about flying insects when it’s raining, so I’ll open it. And why would he know what I’m doing up here if he’s downstairs watching TV with Charlie?

  And how would Abbott know if I went outside, if I stopped resting and went outside?

  If he’s watching TV with Charlie, if Nelson’s sitting at their feet, if he’s in the living room watching TV how would he know? I can write rain pelteth, with or without Keats. I won’t forget. I’ve hardly been thinking about anything else.

  It wasn’t here yesterday, this stream, this little beck and now I’m standing in it. Here I am. Here, with water cutting around my ankles. And that’s the trick, isn’t it? Getting used to change. It had to change. It didn’t change. Everything stayed the same. For days, for weeks, the sun was staring out of its sky. Blue, azure, cerulean.

  The sun was staring, and people were asking when it would break. They were talking about the weather. They wanted to know when the weather would break and they looked up into the sky and everything was the same and everything went on being the same and I heard Joan say, ‘Oh well, we’ll just have to get on with it.’

  Everyone got on with it and the leather on the sofa dried out. It dried out and it fissured. Deep lines fingered their way across the leather. Papa knew the trick, but I never got used to his grey hair.

  It’s impossible to rest ad infinitum, so here I am, standing in our own little beck. In our stream, our runnel, our brook, our creek, and the rain’s coming down. Coming on down. We’ve got our own little stream and now we’ve got it, the cars have gone. We can’t have it both ways, although Kate did. And I’m standing in our stream and water’s cutting around my ankles and carrying things away. It’s taken them up, ends of branches and wrappers and leaves. It’s carrying them down and off they go and where were all these things before they were carried?

  Two sticks.

  I stopped two sticks on their way down our hill.

  ‘One for Charlie, one for me.’ That’s what I said.

  I said it out loud. One stick for Charlie and one stick for me.

  And it’s been a long time since we raced sticks, Charlie and I, because the sun’s been staring out from its sky. It stared so long it made the leather sofa crack, and when Nelson arrived Charlie was busy, so we haven’t had time. There hasn’t been much time.

  One for Charlie and one for me.

  I’m taking them to the top of our hill. It isn’t far, but you should start from the top, the very top, so I’m taking them up. I’m walking through our stream and the water’s cutting around my ankles and carrying things, taking them away, and I’ve got two sticks. You can tell which is Charlie’s and which is mine and we have to make it fair. You have to put them in at exactly the same time. You can’t drop them, you have to crouch down to do it, you have to crouch before you place them in the water, and Charlie used to squat down like this when she was small and you have to make it fair. The sticks have to be side by side, like this, here. You have to count before letting them go.

  One, two.

  And maybe I let go of Charlie’s a bit early. It’s easily done. I crouched down, put the sticks side by side and counted and let go and off they went.

  It’s impossible to rest all the time.

  There they go, our sticks, down our hill, going down, and is that Charlie’s stick that’s winning? Is that Charlie’s or mine, the one in the lead? And where will they go now I’ve let go of them like that, let go of the sticks without thinking, because they can’t both win. There isn’t room for two winners.

  And is that Charlie’s stick, or is it mine, the one that’s stopped now? Because they didn’t look the same when I was carrying them up the hill, but now I’m not sure. Is it Charlie’s that needs setting free or is it mine?

  It’s stuck. It’s lodged itself there and I’ll have to set it free, it’s in the rules. You’re allowed to set them free, if you can reach them, but is it Charlie’s or is it mine that’s lodged itself here, right here, amongst this black?

  I knelt down. The water cut around my knees. It was flowing down our hill and taking things with it.

  I’d guessed. I knew.

  I knew it was a swift, the black thing the stick had lodged itself into. That’s why I knelt down. That’s why I didn’t mind kneeling down. That’s why I didn’t mind the water cutting around my knees, or the way it took things, the way it was taking things. I was wet, I was soaked through. I didn’t mind.

  I was kneeling in the water and I’d forgotten about the sticks. I was thinking about the swift. I had it in my hand and I was thinking how heavy it was, how heavy it was now it was full of water. I had it in my hand. I had it against my cheek. Water was dripping down my sleeve, water was cutting around my knees and the sticks had gone, both of them, and they must’ve gone because they weren’t there and they must’ve gone down, our sticks, Charlie’s and m
ine, with all those things, and I couldn’t let go. No. I had the swift against my cheek and I didn’t mind the water around my knees. I didn’t mind that everything had turned to water, because I had the swift against my cheek and it was heavy and it was dripping and I was thinking about the Bible and I was thinking of the Flood and how the waters prevailed upon the earth, and I was kneeling in the stream with the swift against my cheek and I could feel it dripping, and I was thinking how much I liked the word prevailed because I understood, I knew, prevailed, and the swift was dripping and the rain was coming down and I knew I could feel small again if I thought about the waters prevailing upon the earth.

  ‌

  I threw the ball. I threw it the way Charlie throws it. I threw it into the lake but Nelson won’t go in.

  ‘You like playing ball. Get the ball. Nelson.’

  It’s out there on the lake, the ball, Nelson’s ball. It’s sitting amongst the cattails, forgotten or lost, but which, but which is worse?

  ‘In you go. The ball.’

  He won’t go in. Doesn’t turn his big head, lies down and rests it on his paws and why won’t he go in when he’s been in before? Why doesn’t he go in now when he likes to go in and out over and over? Why won’t he go in? The ball’s sitting. Sitting on the water and it can’t sit there indefinitely. It looks like it can, but it can’t. Even Signe. Even Charlie. In the end she came inside. I fetched her a towel but the rain went on dripping onto the mat. And now Nelson won’t go in and maybe it’s because I’m not Charlie, because Charlie isn’t here. He likes playing ball with Charlie. He plays ball all the time.

  Abbott asked her. Lynn. He said it might be an idea to get me some help.

  ‘Help with Charlie, now the holidays are here, you know?’ he said.

  I didn’t know.

  ‘You haven’t been the same since,’ he said.